At one time, she’d been everything to Ben.
But she hadn’t been his. Except for one night.
Had his father been right? Had he wanted her for no other reason than to spite his brother?
Right now, Ben wasn’t certain of the answer.
The door clicked behind them as they left the room.
Ben was alone. Alone and dressed in a uniform that was no longer his honor to wear.
His brother was bringing him back to where he did not want to be. And Elin was a symbol of all that. But she had changed. The woman he had just met was not the companion of his youth. That girl would have rallied to his cause. She would have dared him to stand up for what he believed right.
But she’d sold her soul to be a duchess. Baynton’s duchess.
She hadn’t even glanced at him as she’d left.
Ben walked over to several decanters on a table by the desk. He poured a very healthy glass and downed it.
This was going to be a long night.
Elin felt ready to collapse, and not from nerves over the evening ahead.
Her head reeled from Ben’s sudden reappearance in her life, especially at this moment. She didn’t know what to think, especially after witnessing the argument between the brothers. She felt she’d just witnessed a clash of Titans.
And the row didn’t seem to bother Baynton at all. He’d returned to the eager man he’d been before Ben’s intrusion. He even stopped at the top of the stairs and pulled the pearls from his pocket. “May I?” he asked.
Elin dutifully allowed him to fasten the strand around her throat.
“Beautiful,” he murmured. He raised his gaze from the necklace to her face. “You are beautiful.” He leaned forward as if to kiss her again, and Elin felt a moment of panic.
What if Ben came out into the hall? What would he think?
Why should she care?
“Ben is very angry,” she heard herself say.
Gavin pulled back, concern crossing his face. “I’m sorry you witnessed the argument. My brother is headstrong.”
“So are you.”
Her comment appeared to startle him, then he laughed. “I was told you speak your mind. I don’t mind that. Don’t worry about Ben. He will come to his senses.” He spoke with confidence.
Elin wasn’t so certain.
“Your Grace, are you ever coming down?” a laughing male voice called. It was echoed by several others who were crushed into the front hall, waiting for their turn at the receiving line. Elin and the duke’s presence at the top of the stairs had been detected.
Gavin knew who had called out. Taking Elin’s arm and escorting her down, he said, “I can’t believe you would begrudge a man a sweet moment when he has a lovely woman on his arm, Rovington.” Lord Rovington was one of Baynton’s closest friends.
Elin blushed at the compliment, yet felt ill at ease. She’d never been one who craved attention. Now, all eyes were on her as they reached the lower stairs. She could feel them evaluating the truth of his claim. Was she lovely? Even pretty? Elin could see the verdict in the side glances the women cast toward each other.
Baynton was immediately swamped by his guests, who included all the most important people in government and society. They came at him from all sides, wanting his attention.
Even during the receiving line, they pressed him with concerns, using this opportunity for their own purposes. He handled them effortlessly. He remembered names and graciously included Elin in conversations. Of course, sometimes, he used her as a foil to move certain people on their way.
She understood her role. She smiled and nodded. This was the part of Society she did not enjoy. It felt superficial. Her mother had chided her for expecting too much, and perhaps she did.
However, in truth, Elin had never minded the country dances in her parish back in Heartwood, but a London ballroom was different. She’d learned that during her first season. While her parents might thrive on the press of people in Town and the opportunities presented, Elin fought an urge to hide . . . especially this evening.
Many of the smiles directed at her were not sincere, especially those from marriageable young women who would have adored catching a prize like Baynton. Even the daughters of her cousin Robbie Morris, who served as her father’s secretary, could not hide their envy.
It was a bit overwhelming.
Elin’s smile began to feel plastered to her face. She couldn’t relax because guests kept coming through the door.
Finally, thankfully, Marcella whispered in Gavin’s ear. He excused himself from the receiving line. “We must start the dancing,” he apologized to those who had not yet gone through the line. He took Elin’s hand.
Her heart pounding, she followed him to the dance floor. Other couples quickly helped make up the pattern, and, at Baynton’s signal, the musicians began playing.
Elin had practiced for this moment, months, weeks, hours of practice. Her dancing master had declared it would be nice if the duke could just once join them in their lessons. That had not been possible. Baynton was too busy for something as frivolous as a dance lesson.
However, he quickly demonstrated he didn’t need the lessons. He had the gift of athletic grace and did not seem rattled by having all eyes on them. Indeed, he’d spent most of his life being the one everyone watched.
Elin was not that certain of herself. Fortunately, she acquitted herself well enough although she was relieved when the music ended.
Gavin bowed over her hand and kissed her fingers, with everyone watching. A murmur of jealous approval ran through the female guests as fluttering fans were raised to hide any other comments they wished to make. Elin wanted to pretend she didn’t notice. Her mother had always urged her not to be so sensitive to the moods of others, but then her mother was a social creature. Elin needed to contrive to be more like her.
“Let me take your to your parents,” Gavin said, his voice low in his ear as he leaned toward her to be heard. His hand went to the small of her back to guide her. It was a small gesture, a surprisingly intimate one, and she found herself slipping her hand around his arm to break it—whether from shyness or embarrassment she could not say.
They had traveled only a few feet before Sir William Johnson, a gentleman who often came to her father for advice, begged for a moment of Gavin’s time on a “delicate matter of state.”
If Gavin was annoyed by the intrusion, he gave no sign.
“One moment,” Gavin said as if he already knew what Sir William wanted. “Meet me in the library.”
“I’ll inform the prime minister.”
“And the prince,” Gavin said. He referred to the Prince of Wales, who was holding court by the punch bowls.
“I don’t know if he will join us.”
“He will. Tell him I wish him there,” Gavin answered. “Come, Elin.” Once more, he took her arm, but his attention was claimed several more times before they reached their mothers.
“The two of you are a remarkable couple,” her mother answered.
“Miss Morris adds to my luster,” the duke replied. “She is all I could wish for. Now, I’m terribly sorry, but you must excuse me. Mrs. Morris, Mother, Miss Morris.” He said her name with just the right touch of heat before leaving them.
Elin watched him go, his tall figure standing out in the crowd. People called to him, begged his attention, wanted a moment with him. She overheard a woman not far from her mention to her companion, “Of course, theirs is the match of the century. Two very wealthy people becoming more wealthy. How can it be better?”
Had the woman meant for her voice to carry? Or was Elin too attuned to what people thought of her?
She looked to the Dowager, who appeared completely at ease. “Is it always like this?”
Marcella took in the press of people gathered around them. “Usually.”
Her mother made a dismissive sound. “Elin, you have experienced this with your father. You understand that more work is done at events like this than
in the hallways of government.”
“I do,” Elin answered, but she was lying.
Furthermore, she’d not been around Baynton often. During her Season, the most natural time for her to enjoy the duke’s company at soirees and balls, the old duke had taken him traveling with him. They had been in Belgium, she remembered.
Shortly after the trip, his father had taken ill. Things like marriages had been postponed, then there was the period of mourning. Elin had actually been content to return to Heartwood and the country life she enjoyed.
Now, for the first time, she wondered what sort of marriage they would have. Her father was a busy man but devoted to his wife and made time for Jenny. His business dealings took second place and, however much he doted on Elin, she was the third in his sense of priorities.
Watching Baynton disappear into an adoring crowd, Elin wondered where she would rank with him?
A stray thought also asked if Ben had returned to see his father before he passed? She’d not seen him at the funeral. Of course, there had been so many in attendance, it would have been difficult to lay eyes on every one of them.
But she would have noticed Ben . . . wouldn’t she? Wouldn’t he have been in the front, with the family? Or would he have hidden himself away?
Her father interrupted her worries by coming to her side. “You have made us very happy this night,” he said. He gave her a fatherly kiss on the cheek and plunged into the conversations around them.
Very soon, their small group expanded. Her parents had many friends. Marcella was popular in her own right as well as being the hostess.
Elin understood why her mother had wanted her to eat. Everyone tried to include her in their conversations while they carefully watched her. Judged her. Many guests wanted the opportunity to claim on the morrow that they had met her, that they had danced with her or talked to her.
Elin began to feel like a garden statue on display. She understood now why Marcella valued her mother’s friendship. In the world of London society, it was genuine.
The hour was approaching midnight. Gavin had not yet returned from wherever he was. The Dowager did not appear concerned. Elin was. She longed for a moment of respite and found the banalities she uttered or that were uttered to her boring. Gavin understood these people. He would shepherd her with his easy laugh and confident authority.
Even her parents were too busy to do other than smile indulgently at her as she was led to the dance floor by eager gentlemen wishing to impress her future husband or her wealthy father. She no longer tried to remember the names of Lady This or Lord That who were introduced to her. Her ability to feign interest was waning.
And then the evening turned.
Was it her imagination or had a hush settled over the ballroom? She glanced around and saw why—Lord Benedict Whitridge had arrived.
Since he was taller than his brother, he was easy to spot.
Since he was still in his travel-stained uniform, he stood out.
Since he hadn’t had time to shave, he appeared grubby in the midst of such elegant company.
And he was heading directly for her.
“Is that my son?” Marcella asked. She moved to stand beside Elin. “I didn’t know he was here.”
Her statement, for an inexplicable reason, incensed Elin. Did Ben believe he could do whatever he pleased to anyone he wished? Was he just insensitive to everyone?
Apparently so, because when he stopped in front of Elin and his mother, his breath was foul with whisky although he stood straight and tall. “My mother,” he said with a stiff bow.
“I did not know you had returned,” she answered, and took a step toward him as if wishing to wrap her arms around him.
Ben pulled back slightly, and Marcella’s hands dropped to her side. “I’m surprised my brother didn’t tell you to expect me.”
He sounded cold, cruel even.
And then he shocked everyone by taking Elin’s hand. “Come with me.” He didn’t wait for assent but pulled her after him through the crowd.
Shocked, Elin started to put up resistance but caught her mother’s eye and saw her small shake of the head, a warning not to encourage a scene.
So Elin followed his lead, but she was furious. How dare he present himself this way? He was making a mockery of everything, including his mother.
And when she saw that he was not taking her to the dance floor but moved toward the portico door leading to the garden, she almost raced him for it.
For eight years she’d been waiting to tell him a thing or two. Her meager supply of goodwill toward him had been depleted by his callous, boorish behavior. Did he think Gavin had given him a set down?
He hadn’t experienced anything yet.
In fact, the ballroom full of people, the importance of the evening, everything faded from her mind at the thought of finally having the confrontation she’d yearned for since he’d discarded her years ago as if she were used goods.
A footman standing by the door saw their approach and opened it. Elin flew into the garden. Ben was on her heels.
She marched across the stone terrace. Paper lanterns hung gaily around the terrace. Several couples were enjoying the evening air. Elin did not want witnesses to what was about to happen.
Now she understood why she’d been unsettled all evening. Ben’s presence ruined everything. He’d been in the back of her mind whether she could have acknowledged that fact moments ago or not.
She would have her say, and when she was done, she was going to take herself back into the ballroom to stand beside her betrothed as the announcement was made. Gavin was a good and noble man; Ben was a scapegrace, a rascal, a no-good friend. The latter was the worst charge she could level against him. The worst.
Elin went down the terrace steps and out into the darkness of the garden. There was a rose arbor there, surrounded by tall shrubs that offered privacy. When she felt those staring after them on the terrace could not see their actions, she whirled on Ben so quickly, he almost ran into her.
And then she did something she’d longed to do for years. She slapped the side of his stubbled jaw with all the force in her small being.
There was a loud, satisfying sound of flesh hitting flesh. Then a pain, the likes of which she’d never known, shot through her hand to her shoulder.
Chapter Three
Ben was drunk.
His father had always stocked the library with choice whisky, and his brother had apparently—thankfully—maintained the practice. The golden brown fluid in the decanter had been an elixir from the gods to a man who had traveled as far as Ben had, to a man whose goals, hopes, and dreams had been dashed and a bleak future lay ahead, to a man who had come face-to-face with the only woman who had ever mattered to him.
He’d thought he’d accepted that he couldn’t have Elin. A man moved on, something that was vastly easier to do when oceans and countries were between them.
Ah, yes, and with the passage of time. Ben had counted on time being his strongest ally. He had been wrong.
Having his career terminated, finding himself summarily dismissed as if the sweat, the work, the sacrifices he had made for his country meant nothing—all of it had evaporated in Elin’s presence, and he’d become a boy again. A boy who had been half-mad with lust for her.
And what struck him during his third glass of whisky was that she wasn’t completely out of his grasp—not until the announcement was made.
Perhaps Fate was not being unkind. Perhaps the military dismissal was part of the plan of a benevolent God. Mayhap Ben was receiving a chance to make amends.
But Elin was obviously not happy with him.
She had just slapped him with all the passion in her being. He knew she’d given it her all because she grabbed her hand at the wrist in pain.
Uncertainty started to sober him.
The night came into focus and with it awareness. “Did you hurt yourself?” He moved toward her. “I’m sorry.” He sounded boozy. He needed to gather himse
lf.
She took a step back, warning him off, and helped his sobriety by announcing, “You stink.”
“What?” Ben wasn’t certain he heard her correctly.
Her hand still around her wrist, she clarified for him. “You smell.”
He did. Now that she had brought it to his attention, he could smell his own person. There was the stench of travel, of the horses he’d ridden, of the salt in the sea air, of the rotting wood and foul fish, and just being a man. He was a reeking gallant charging forth to save her.
And perhaps that was not the wisest way to win his case.
He should have bathed before presenting himself to her, but Ben had never lived his life according to what he “should” do. Furthermore, strong drink had taken priority over sanity. Otherwise, he would have been in danger of throttling his brother, and it was never wise to throttle a duke. They had minions. He didn’t.
However, it was unkind of her to make the remark. Her verdict stung already damaged pride.
Ben caught himself swaying slightly and squared his shoulders to stand erect. “Dear Elin, always saying exactly what is on her mind without a filter.”
“You have a filter?” she countered coolly, releasing a hold on her hand, a sign she would survive striking him.
Touché. Had he truly forgotten how sharp her tongue could be?
He matched her tone. “You are too small to do any true damage to me with only your hand, if that was your intent. The next time you decide to slap me, may I suggest you use a book. A good heavy one.”
“Let me go to the library then,” she answered stoutly, and started for the house.
Ben hooked his hand in her arm and swung her around. The rose arbor gave them some privacy, and he wasn’t ready to leave it.
“I must talk to you,” he confessed.
She pulled away, but he felt her change, soften. Perhaps she was curious as to what he would say. Perhaps she cared more than she was allowing.
However, at that moment, they heard an intruder. “Elin,” her father’s low voice called.
The Match of the Century Page 3